Another shad falls for a floating fly.

Before I continue, let me put this waking business in perspective. Consider that anglers fishing flies, or jigs, have traditionally fished for shad down deep. Sinking lines or at the very least, weighted flies are ‘de rigeur.’ Meanwhile, the actual flies, which represent nothing in particular, are just dots of flash and color that are supposed to irritate shad rather than appeal to their appetites. Just for the record, I never fell for any of it.

Scientists tell us shad spend most of their adult lives far at sea. They supposedly live at great depths, which helps them elude commercial fishermen, as well as the prying eyes of biologists. Examine a shad’s mouth and you’ll see it’s capable of grabbing a substantial morsel. Take a deepwater shrimp or one of those abyssal nightmares that appear on National Geographic specials. Do they remember this after entering fresh water? What else does a dot of orange or chartreuse represent? And what about the flash? By now, you’re getting my point.

I believe shad feed aggressively, and that even during their honeymoon, old habits die hard. What I’m suggesting is that some shad continue feeding after entering fresh water, and what they eat is determined by several important factors. While most of these fish recall the deep-sea invertebrates that correspond to colorful “traditional” patterns, others may react differently; particularly in a river that’s literally stuffed to the gills with tiny minnows (a.k.a. “rain bait”). The St. Johns is such a river.

Even today, the shad migration remains a mystery. After heading upstream at Jacksonville, the fish disappear until they reach the Osteen Bridge near Sanford. They usually show up in January and continue arriving into March.

Old-timers will remember names like Marina Isle and “Shad Alley,” where extravagant shad “derbies” once attracted thousands of anglers. Today’s crowd heads farther upstream. The section of river between Mullet and Puzzle lakes is especially popular, and there’s also interest in the area near Hatbill Creek.

Despite the persistent bombardment and periods of low water, a few shad make it all the way to the Highway 520 Bridge, west of Cocoa. That leaves plenty of fishable water. You can tell my favorite sections from their uncertain channels and unexpected bends. These are gently meandering flows, surrounded by a floodplain that extends practically to the horizon. The vastness is punctuated by stands of cattails and saw palmetto and in some places, bald cypress line the banks. Several creeks enter the river at irregular intervals and in some places the plain is submerged. Expect to see wildlife. However, if you’re hesitant to share the banks with gators and strange-looking cattle, take comfort in the realization that when water levels rise, the steers retreat to higher ground. Tiny baitfish, however, are everywhere.

Meanwhile, the feeding orgy continues around us while fishing in general remains slow. I’m getting a strike every now and then but that’s about it. I looked up to see friend Pat Ross, who we’d dropped off previously on the bank, fast to a fish. I remembered handing him some pink flies that worked wonders three years ago, but I recalled too late that they hadn’t produced anything since. Other anglers weren’t doing anything, so was there a possible connection?

Whenever possible, make sure your back casts "steer clear" of bankside spectators.

I thought so. It was evident that the same fish that were hitting standard patterns just a few days ago had collectively changed their minds. Now, steeled by the lead-gray sky and slick-calm conditions, they’d set their sights on baitfish. To a lesser degree, they’d also hit pink, as evinced by Pat’s eventually landing a half-dozen fish. What was the connection? I remembered reading something about a St. Johns shrimp fishery. All of a sudden, it started making sense.

How did the day finally end? I popped off my one and only Muddler, after which I couldn’t buy another strike. During lunch, Phil waxed poetic about the day’s events: “You had ‘em coming. Next time, tie up more of those flies.”